


What the Road Holds

by Pearl_Pilots_In_Chains



Series: Of Tears and Ash [2]
Category: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys
Genre: A chance encounter, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And of course violence, Gen, bandits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 04:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14992358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearl_Pilots_In_Chains/pseuds/Pearl_Pilots_In_Chains
Summary: The story of how two friends met.





	What the Road Holds

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in my "Of Tears and Ash" AU. It is set roughly a decade before "Black Smoke Rises."

            A light breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees which canopied the road.  Rays of sunlight filtered down between the branches, dappling the road with flecks of gold.  Orestes took a deep draft of the early Autumn air as he sauntered down the path.  He admired the auburn and orange hues which adorned the boughs above.  A common ballad issued softly from his lips; one of the many concerning the exploits of the long-lost hero Hercules.

 

            An abrupt shout from some distance ahead at once drew his attention.  As he grew alert, he became aware of the familiar sounds of battle emanating from around an approaching bend.  He drew his xiphos and proceeded with a mixture of celerity and prudence.  Rounding the bend, he located the radix of the din.

 

            A single man faced off against five opponents, arrayed in a semi-circle about him.  The lone warrior was clad in the simple armor of a recruit and wielded a xiphos not dissimilar to Orestes’s.  The soldier sported an impressive head of cascading golden hair.  His face was contorted into a grave mask of resolution and defiance.  His opponents bore arms and armor unfamiliar to Orestes’s eye.  Their attire was a repugnant brownish hue, appearing almost as if it had been intentionally soiled.  Their blades stood in stark contrast to their armor, for the weapons’ quality was readily apparent, even from Orestes’s position.  The weapons were a strange, curved style of sword, differing from any that he had laid his eyes upon.  He guessed that these peculiar assailants were brigands of some variety.

 

            The solitary warrior was clearly losing the melee. An unsightly gash was visible upon his shoulder, from which blood had soaked his armor, shading it a ruddy tone. As Oreste’s watched, one of the fighter’s adversaries lunged in, attempting a direct stab into the soldier’s chest.  The defender was barely able to side-step the assault, moving to the right at the last possible moment.  Oreste’s eyes narrowed.  Regardless of the nature of the conflict, such an unfair combat irked his sense of justice.  Raising his blade, he rushed forward to join the fray.

 

            Striking from behind, Oreste’s first blow caught one of the bandits utterly by surprise.  It was a slicing blow, which cut smoothly through the raider’s side, opening up a wound of significant depth.  Said raider stumbled backwards, blood spurting freely from his recently-acquired laceration.  Seeing the battle joined, the demeanor of the former victim shifted instantaneously, and he aggressively struck out at his attackers with a renewed vigor.  Another highwayman fell back, bleeding from a sizeable gash across his abdomen.  It was obvious that his time was in short supply, merely from the expression of abject suffering which had plastered itself across his features.  To accompany this, he let out a torturous scream, before toppling dramatically to the ground.  He lay stiff and silent in an undignified heap, blood begin to darken his lips with its cadaverous tinge.

  

            One of the thugs swiveled about to face this new threat to their successful assault.  He swung wildly at Orestes, showing little prowess or concentration.  Orestes’s brought his xiphos up and easily blocked the lumbering shot.  Retaliating, he pressed forward, driving his blade neatly in between two of the brigand’s ribs.  Orestes withdrew his sword and his foe promptly collapsed, convulsing frenetically for a few brief moments, before growing still.  Orestes could already make out death’s cool pallor beginning to spread across the marauder’s complexion.

 

            Concurrent to Orestes’s victory, his potential compatriot lashed out at one of the highwaymen, who were now dwindling with an indisputable promptitude.  Those that remained among the world of the living hastily surveyed their surroundings and, ascertaining that their odds of triumph had shrunk substantially, chose to make good their escape while the opportunity to do so remained.

 

            As the surviving attackers fled, the warrior turned to his savior.  Though the man’s face was still distorted with pain, he attempted some semblance of a smile.  “Well, I’d say your arrival was most fortuitous,” he said, and promptly sat down rather awkwardly on the side of the road, leaning up against the trunk of a nearby tree for support.  “I can’t say I like how that looks at all,” he remarked, looking down at his wound with displeasure.

 

            Orestes swung his pack down off of his shoulders and knelt beside the man.  “I believe I can help with that.”  He rooted around in his pack for a moment, before triumphantly extracting a small wooden box from within its depths.  The man raised a skeptical eyebrow.  “This is my kit of medical magical and mystery,” Orestes responded with a small grin, indicating the box.  “I’m Orestes, just to get introductions out of the way.  I like to make sure people know my name before I take their armor off” his grin widened at this quip “speaking of which, if you want me to bandage you up, I’ll need to get that out of the way.”

 

            The stranger nodded at this last statement and begin attempting to remove said armor.  The struggle in his actions was easily identifiable, as was the suffering in his expressions.  Orestes reached out a hand and halted his progress.  “Let me take care of that.  You don’t want to risk causing any further damage or exacerbating that which already exists.”  The warrior acquiesced and ceased his actions towards that end.

 

            Orestes moved swiftly, opening his medical kits and removing the necessary supplies.  As soon as they were in order, he set about removing the warrior’s armor, and subsequently bandaging the slash on his shoulder.  In the midst of this process, he remarked casually, his voice playful, “you know, you still haven’t divulged your name.  Seems a bit impolite if you ask me.  I mean, here I am saving your hide from ruffians and you can’t even introduce yourself properly?  Now, under normal circumstances, I would be implacably offended.  However, given the nature of our meeting, I’ll let you use stress as an excuse for your social negligence.  Just this once though, mind you.  Now, about that name again.  Didn’t quite catch it.”

 

            A genuine smile broke through the pain on the soldier’s face and he replied, eyes dancing with laughter, “well, considering one of my arms is a bit out of commission and the other one is usually focused on swordplay, I haven’t been able to keep up with my name-throwing.  Just don’t have a free, operational hand to toss anything with. You know how it is, I assume?  One does run in to such problems in my line of work you know.”

 

            Orestes spared a moment to glare roguishly at the warrior, before continuing with the task at hand.  “Oh, certainly.  I too have often struggled to maintain my name-throwing skills.  Now that we have common ground on the matter, perhaps you could just slip me your name.  That way you don’t strain your poor, abused arm.  And why don’t you include your profession as well, just so we can get that cleared up?”

 

            “Alright, alright,” the fighter yielded, his face now mirthful, despite his condition and the situation.  “You’re a persuasive fellow” “Get on with it friend!” Orestes interrupted, with another glance up at his patient.  “Well, to answer your first question, my name is Iphicles.  To answer your second, I’m a soldier by trade.  Nowadays, I’m more of a mercenary than anything.  A scrupulous mercenary though, mind you.  I do have standards when it comes to my employers.  Learned that lesson the hard way.”  His eyes grew distant following this last detail.

 

            “Well Iphicles, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Wish we could have met under more auspicious circumstances, but I’ll say you’ve made an acceptable first impression nonetheless,” Orestes stated, his mood still bright.  “Now, as soon as I finished returning you to an intact state, why don’t we ramble on to the next village and sample the mead at the local tavern?  I hear this region is known for its superior brews.”

 

            Iphicles seemed to consider the proposition for a moment, before responding.  “All things considered, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all.  Let’s see, going from nearly dying in the evening, to raising a tankard by the time the evening rolls around?  Seems like at least a tolerable day if you ask me.”

 

            Orestes chuckled openly.  “Iphicles, my friend, I have to say, I like the way you think!”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a random note: both Orestes and Iphicles are in their early twenties at the time of this story.


End file.
